“Five cents, Mr. Schelmsford! That’s right!”
“Mr. Stickup! Is Stickup here?”
“No Stickup here.” (Or any where else I fancy, continues one sotto voce.)
“It’s likely you know as well as I do, when I’m looking right at the letter, and you are staring at the rum barrels. I’ll thank you to hold your tongue.”
“Send to Washington—have him put out—can’t read writen—dunce—fool—blunderhead—how long must we wait?” burst out in paroxysms of wrath from the expectants.
“Gentlemen have a little patience, will ye; you see what spider’s tracks this writen is. It wants optics like those of a microscope to decipher it,” responds the poor postmaster, perspiring in his dread at the awful threats of the expectants. “Now have a l-e-e-t-l-e patience and you’ll all get your letters.”
“Mrs. Soapdish!”
“Soapdish, you wretch!” shrieks a female voice in the crowd. “Soapdish, you mean puppy! Soapdish! you low fellow!”
“Yes, Soapdish!” asseverated the postmaster, who seeing it is only a woman begins to take courage. “Have you any objection to Soapdish? If you have leave the letter, that’s all. Leave the letter for the dead office at Washington, only don’t interrupt me in my official duties, my good woman! Soapdish is a very good name, the name your husband gave you, no doubt, Mrs. Soapdish! Does she want her letter, after paying me five cents for it!”
“You mean Mrs. Soper, Mr. Skinner,” modestly observes some one from the crowd.